


Ruled by Secrecy [ARCHIVED]

by howelleheir



Series: Zima & Leto [ARCHIVED] [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Bondage, Brainwashing, Breathplay, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Childhood Trauma, Choking, Clothing Kink, Dehumanization, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Facials, Food, Forced Eye Contact, Forced Orgasm, Forced infantilism, Gang Rape, Gangbang, Good Guy Pierce, HYDRA Trash Party, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hydra (Marvel), Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Infantilism, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mirror Sex, Multi, Multiple Personalities, Nazis, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Sex, Protective Bucky Barnes, Rape, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:45:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/pseuds/howelleheir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pierce smiled and reached out, lifting the Asset's chin. “Of course not,” he said. “Do you know how I see you? I see you as an instrument. You've played beautifully in the past, but you've been left out in the cold, untuned, unpolished, scratched and dented by their haphazard handling, and always limited by the skill of an inferior artist pulling the strings. The solution isn't more of the same. The solution is for a more attentive player to step in, to replace the broken and rusted strings, to clean and polish the instrument, to tune it, and, once everything is just so...to play it as it was meant to be played.” [ARCHIVED - I'm currently in the process of editing and reformatting this work and others in the series into related-but-independent oneshots. A link to that series will be posted here when it's up. This series will not be continued in its present form.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cabin

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently in the process of editing and reformatting this work and others in the series into related-but-independent oneshots. A link to that series will be posted here when it's up. This series will not be continued in its present form.

_Who am I? They called me something before...what was it? Before they made me swallow those pills. I was cold. And I felt like I had been asleep...maybe for a long time. Then, they laid me on a metal table and put the pills in my mouth and someone said..._

"Swallow, Soldier."

_Is that my name? Why can't I move? And why is it so dark? They said something else, didn't they? Before I lost consciousness? They said..._

"Pierce wants a one-on-one. Take the necessary precautions and bring him to the cabin. After you've dropped him, stand by."

_What does that mean? I don't know that name. I know the cabin though. Just its coordinates, nothing else. Is that where I am now? It must be. I can hear crickets and it smells like pine. I want to know where I am, but I'm so tired..._

When the Asset stirred again, he heard footsteps nearby, then the sound of a door opening and closing again. More aware of his body now, he could feel that his hands were cuffed behind his back. Another set on his ankles, both strong enough to hold him. Mag cuffs. It wasn't dark in the room; he could just barely make out a sliver of warm light under the edge of a blindfold.

"You're awake." A man's voice, but not one he recognized. Three more footsteps, and the smell of pine was joined by earthy cologne and wintergreen. "I told them the restraints weren't necessary, but they do like to be cautious after the last time you threw a tantrum. So, can you promise me that you'll behave when I remove the cuffs?"

"Yes, sir." The response came out of the Asset's mouth suddenly and involuntarily. It almost felt like vomiting.

“I thought so.”

With a soft _click_ , the mag cuffs on his ankles released, then the ones on his wrists.

“Up on your knees.”

The Asset obeyed, albeit unsteadily. Whatever drug he had been given, it was still thick in his veins. The cologne-and-wintergreen smell returned, nearer now, as the man removed the blindfold. Even as dim as it was in the room, the new light made the Asset's eyes sting, and he squinted against it. In front of him, the man was seated in a wooden chair, leaning forward with his hands folded and his elbows against his knees.

He was well-dressed, in a dark grey suit. Neat, red-blond hair. Athletic. Late twenties?

“We haven't officially met before now, but I'll be overseeing your operations. My name is Alexander Pierce.”

Pierce. The man the techs had been talking about. This was who the Asset had been sent to see.

“You should know that I strongly disagree with some of your previous handlers' methods. In fact, I feel that you've been treated very carelessly. Ever since I gained the necessary clearance to know that you exist, I've seen the potential you have. The others treated you like a bomb – deadly, yes, but also volatile, indiscriminate in its destruction – and then they heedlessly tossed you around, and were surprised when you went off. But you're not a bomb, are you?”

The Asset knitted his brows at the question, unsure if he was supposed to answer. Tentatively, he said, “No, sir.”

Pierce smiled and reached out, lifting the Asset's chin. “Of course not,” he said. “Do you know how I see you? I see you as an instrument. You've played beautifully in the past, but you've been left out in the cold, untuned, unpolished, scratched and dented by their haphazard handling, and always limited by the skill of an inferior artist pulling the strings. The solution isn't more of the same. The solution is for a more attentive player to step in, to replace the broken and rusted strings, to clean and polish the instrument, to tune it, and, once everything is _just so_...to play it as it was meant to be played.”

The Asset, though he wasn't sure he fully followed the metaphor, sat in awe. The way Pierce spoke about him was mesmerizing. No one – at least no one that he could remember – had ever spoken to him that way. Zola, Karpov, Lukin – they had only ever given him orders. And there had been a few techs, the ones who never lasted long, who spoke to him exactly as they spoke to other people, asking questions, speaking with sympathy, with pity, in their voices. Orders were preferable. Orders, at least, were never confusing. But this; this was something entirely new, something he hadn't known that he'd been missing.

“May I ask a question, sir?”

“You may,” said Pierce, leaning back and crossing one ankle over his knee.

The Asset searched for the words. “Sir, why are you being so... _kind_ to me?”

“If I were unkind to you now, and then tomorrow, you disobeyed an order or failed an assignment, and I were still unkind to you, what incentive would you have to obey? I could always be cruel in that case. But being treated unkindly rather than cruelly isn't much of an incentive, either. All punishment, no reward. I've always believed that punishment is much more effective when there is a pleasant alternative. So I'm treating you kindly to show you what you can earn with your obedience. Should you choose to disobey, then I'll show you what that earns you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, tomorrow, under my close supervision, the techs are going to adjust your programming to my specifications. For that to happen smoothly, I have to know about all of your programming. Not just the command lists that were recorded.”

“I – I'm sorry, sir,” said the Asset, turning his eyes to the floor. “I can't tell you what they are. I'm not allowed to know my own trigger phrases.”

Smiling, Pierce reached behind his chair and produced a black duffel bag. “That's alright,” he said. “You don't have to. If I needed you to perform those commands, we might have a problem, but all I need you to do is _remember_ performing them.”

The Asset's eyes snapped back to Pierce. “Sir, I-”

“Don't worry. Memory is a funny thing. No one ever really forgets anything, not even you. You see, we can break the connections that help you call up those memories. In fact, we're very good at that. But the memories never disappear. They're just in hiding. Waiting for something to rebuild those connections.”

As he spoke, Pierce pulled a few plastic bags from the duffel, clear, each labeled in the upper-left corner, each stuffed full of fabric.

“Do you know what the strongest trigger for memory is?”

“No, sir.”

“Scent,” said Pierce, holding up one of the bags. “So, I'm going to give you a drug that will make you more suggestible. Then, I'll expose you to several different scents. All I need you to do is remember. Everything you can. And once nothing else comes to the surface, I'll have you write down exactly what you remembered.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nodding, Pierce placed the plastic bags back inside the duffel and slung it over his shoulder. “Good. Follow me.”

Pierce led the Asset through a door, down a narrow hall, and through another door into one of the cabin's bedrooms. It was sparsely decorated – nondescript bedding and curtains, a mirror over a low dresser, and a single painting hanging on the wall above the bed, a forested mountain landscape. The furniture was old and worn, the bed worst of all. The stain was rubbed away in thick stripes around the bottom of each post and in thin scratches down the left side of the headboard.

“Lie down on your back,” said Pierce. When the Asset obeyed, he replaced the blindfold. “This will work much better if there's no interference from your other senses.”

Soon after the blindfold was back on, the Asset felt pressure, first in his left ear, then the right. Earplugs. Then, the sting of a needle in his arm and the burn of the injection that followed. Almost instantly, he felt very dizzy and his skin began to numb.

“Alright,” he heard Pierce say, though it was muffled by the plugs. Soft fabric covered his mouth and nose. “Breathe in.”

Soap. Sandalwood and musk. A faint tinge of petroleum. Stale alcohol.

But they didn't make him remember anything.

He was just about to tell Pierce that it wasn't working, to apologize, when something struck him about the sandalwood scent. He knew it.

He took in another deep breath, focusing on the sandalwood, trying to figure out exactly what it was.

Then, suddenly, as if it were right in front of him, he could see the little glass bottle with its gold-and-turquoise label, the green liquid inside.

_Shipr cologne._

As soon as the name came back to him, the flood of memories began.


	2. The First Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My ground rules are quite simple: do whatever you like with him, but leave no permanent damage. If he should disobey, he is to be punished as harshly as you see fit.”  
> Lukin’s hand disappeared from Zima’s thigh, and he could see him, in the mirror, turning towards him, leaning in close to his ear. The smell of cologne, vodka, and petroleum enveloped him.  
> “Zima,” Lukin whispered. “Entertain my guests.”

The bottle. It was the only object in his field of view. Glass, clear. Half-full of green liquid. Dark turquoise label. Gold scrolling and text: _Шипр_.

The room around him was dark, a single dim lamp the only illumination. He was face-down, his hands and feet bound by rough rope to each of the bed posts, and his whole body was run through by a buzzing, tingling numbness. His memory was a blank slate for the most part, but the feeling of being fresh out of cryostasis was impossible to erase. How long this time?

The bottle. He remembered the bottle. Last time, it had been three-quarters full. Not long. Six months?

A voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Zima.” A slick baritone. Russian. He thought he might know Russian, but it wouldn't come, which meant that he wasn't programmed to speak Russian for this assignment. But he knew that one word. The name that Lukin called him. A sigh of relief when the man continued in English, “You should recall your last assignment. Do you?”

“Yes, sir. Mission completed. Target eliminated by overdose of warfarin.”

“Yes. And the completion of that mission reopened channels between Hydra's operatives in Russia and those in the West. So, tonight, we are going to celebrate with a few of our American operatives.”

Zima's stomach clenched at the word, _celebrate_ , though he didn't know why.

“The operatives will be arriving shortly. You are to stay quiet until you are needed. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

The sound of a door opening and closing. Then, silence. With a concentrated effort, Zima managed to turn his head the other way. There was a dresser on the wall across from him, and above it, a wide mirror in which he could observe his reflection. He was naked, limbs stretched tight across the mattress. His hair was clean and freshly combed. They had shaved his face.

Outside, he heard several cars pull in within the space of a few minutes. Then knocking at the door. Lukin, greeting them. Talking, all male voices, varied accents, a few American, a few Russian. Liquid being poured, glasses clinking. Lukin gave a toast, followed by a chorus of, “Hail Hydra!” from the men. Plates and utensils being used, and a smell that made Zima’s stomach feel hollow. Food. He was very hungry. He remembered that, if he were good, he’d be allowed to eat. The voices became louder and more overlapping. Some of them sounded slurred. Maybe an hour after the guests had arrived, the door to the bedroom opened again, and in the mirror, Zima could see Lukin and another man bringing in several wooden chairs. They set them down on the other side of the bed, facing the mirror. Six chairs. More men filtered in behind them, carrying glasses, some filled with champagne, others with liquor. One brought in the bottles and placed them on the dresser. They were all looking at Zima. A man with brown hair and glasses let out a low whistle.

As soon as everyone was settled, Lukin spoke. “Mr. Burbank, Mr. Mackinnon, Mr. Spears. This is Zima, my inheritance from General Karpov. The rest of you know him from our last celebration. A brief history lesson: he was created at the end of the second world war by Arnim Zola. In 1948, after his training and conditioning were complete, he was sold to the Russian military and placed under the command of General Karpov. The general has entrusted his care to me. As a soldier, he is efficient, deadly, and extremely obedient. But it is that obedience which makes him versatile. As you can see, he is restrained, but he could break these ropes at any time. He is incredibly strong. But, he has not been ordered to break them, and so, he will not.”

At this point, Lukin took a seat on the edge of the bed, a rough hand running up and down Zima’s thigh. Zima suppressed a whimper, his heart suddenly racing. The touch made him afraid, even if he couldn’t remember what there was to be afraid of.

“My ground rules are quite simple: do whatever you like with him, but leave no permanent damage. If he should disobey, he is to be punished as harshly as you see fit.”

Lukin’s hand disappeared from Zima’s thigh, and he could see him, in the mirror, turning towards him, leaning in close to his ear. The smell of cologne, vodka, and petroleum enveloped him.

“Zima,” Lukin whispered. “ _Entertain_ my guests.”

The word shot straight through him. Involuntarily, he lifted his hips from the bed as far as his bonds would allow. Since he hadn’t been ordered to look, he turned his head downward. He didn’t remember what was supposed to happen next, but he knew he didn’t want to watch it.

Zima felt Lukin’s weight leave the bed, but it was quickly replaced by someone else’s. Heavier. He heard a noise - the lid of a glass jar being removed - and then a hand between his buttocks, leaving behind something thick and greasy. It made him shudder. Seconds after the hand was gone, he felt something else press against him. He wanted to pull away, to let his hips fall and close his legs as tight as the ropes would allow, but his conditioning wouldn’t let him. Instead, he deepened the arch in his back and relaxed as the man behind him pushed in. It burned, even slicked as he was, stretched him too far. He let out a little yelp of surprise at the sudden fullness. A few of the men laughed. It made Zima’s cheeks burn. The man behind him grabbed hold of his hips and started to thrust. Gripping the ropes as tightly as he could, Zima tried to bite back his cries. He was supposed to like it, but it hurt, and the sounds of the man’s grunting and flesh slapping on flesh made him sick to his stomach. When the man pulled out, he felt relieved until he felt a hot, wet burst across his back.

“Loosen up the ropes on his hands,” one of the Russians said. “I want his mouth.”

“Up, Zima,” said Lukin. The ropes had some slack now. He pushed himself to his hands and knees, and a man, the Russian, he supposed, climbed onto the bed in front of him. Another - he could see in his periphery that it was the man with the glasses - climbed up behind him. He was smaller than the first, so it didn’t burn as badly when he pushed in. The man in front took down his fly and took his cock out, tapped it against Zima’s lips. He turned his head away, cringing. It smelled dirty and sour.

“Hey,” the Russian snapped, grabbing Zima by the jaw. It dug his teeth into his cheeks. He thought he could taste blood. “What’s wrong with you?” He smacked his cock against Zima’s lips again, several times in quick succession. “Come on. Suck me, little faggot.”

“Zima.” Lukin’s voice.

_No, please don’t say it. Please don’t make me._

“ _Service_ , Zima.”

His voice trembled when he said, “Yes, sir.”

He squeezed his eyes shut as his mouth opened. A sharp thrust from the man behind him pitched him forward, forcing the Russian’s cock into his throat. He gagged around it, but he knew he wasn’t allowed to vomit. He would be punished for that, so he tried to breathe through his nose and open his throat.

The man behind him finished between his buttocks and was quickly replaced by another, who slammed into Zima so hard that he almost bit down on the Russian, barely stopping himself in time. Tears streamed down his face at the brutal thrusts from behind, each forcing the Russian in and out of his mouth. Trapped between them, he chose to bear down against the man penetrating him so that the Russian’s cock would stop gagging him, but it forced the other man too deep. He thought he felt something inside of him tear. When he clenched against the sudden pain, the man finished inside him with a groan.

“Here, Petya,” said Lukin, addressing the Russian. He untied Zima’s hands and pushed him up onto his knees. “I think you’ll like this. Stand against the headboard. Zima, this man has a _reward_ for you.”

Another of those words that made him move. As Petya got to his feet, Zima braced his hands on either side of the headboard, leaning forward. His mouth opened wide, and his tongue stuck out slightly. He couldn’t close his eyes now. They were locked on Petya, who laughed thickly and started stroking himself against Zima’s tongue.

He wanted to disobey. He wanted to hurt this man, to take the Weapon to his filthy cock and pull it clean off. But he would certainly be punished harshly for that. He didn’t want to be beaten. He dug the fingertips of the Weapon into the headboard to keep himself from disobeying as Petya’s semen hit his tongue.

How many more? Four had used him already. The heavy-set Russian had been first, then the American with the glasses, and Petya, and the third Russian, the one with a mole on his lip. Two more. The other two Americans, one tall with salt-and-pepper hair, the other shorter and wearing a red bow-tie. Lukin would use him last, he knew that. He wouldn’t dare hurt Lukin. All he had to do was be good for the last two men. Then he could eat and go back to the safe house. The techs would hose him off and wipe him. He wouldn’t remember this anymore. Then, they would put him back into cryostasis until Lukin needed him again. Maybe next time, he would be used as a weapon instead of a toy. A real mission.

The tall man was first. He passed his glass to the man with the bowtie and pushed Zima back onto his hands and knees.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “Lukin, your friend here is bleeding.”

Zima looked down. There were a few drops of blood on the sheets beneath him, and a trail down his thigh. It wasn’t bad, and he didn’t want Lukin to be angry.

“Please, sir,” he said, arching his back toward the tall man. “It’s alright. I’m not hurt.”

_Don’t push it, please. Please. I don’t want Lukin to punish me. Just use me and get it over with so I can go back to the safe house and be wiped._

“Hm. Like a little pain, do you? Spears, come over here.”

The man with the bowtie set both of their drinks on the chair and came over, one eyebrow raised. The tall man pushed inside of Zima.

“Up on your feet,” he said.

Awkwardly, Zima pulled himself up into a squat, his weight on his hands in front of him.

“Here, Spears. Lift his legs.”

Spears gave a sudden, understanding smile and, unzipping his fly, he knelt in front of Zima and lifted him by the thighs, pushing his weight onto the tall man’s chest. They lifted him together, then brought him back down onto both of them at once, Spears sliding in just after the tall man.

Zima couldn’t bite back his scream. He knew he would be in trouble for it, but it was impossible. He thought it might actually be killing him. Nothing had ever hurt like this, not being wiped, not being shot, nothing. They didn’t give him time to recover from first thrust before they were heaving him up and down at an erratic pace, and he couldn’t stop crying out, his body limp between them, tears streaming down his face. The tall man finished first, inside him, and moved away, letting him fall against the footboard. It dug into his spine. Spears held his legs up, pushing his thighs together. His ankles were still bound to the bedposts, and the change in position put a screaming pressure on his knees.

When Spears finally pulled out to ejaculate between his thighs, Zima sighed with relief. He had made it. He had behaved. He was good for Lukin’s guests. As soon as Spears was off the bed, Zima pitched himself forward to relieve the strain in his knees, flat on his stomach with his arms tucked underneath him.

“I believe everyone has had their turn?” asked Lukin. When there was no disagreement, he guided the men out of the room and followed after them, closing the door behind him. More talking and the sound of clinking glasses. Zima looked at himself in the mirror. There were already bruises blooming all over his body - his hips and thighs bore the worst of it, but the stripes across his back from the footboard were the reddest. His hair was tangled, wild. Eyes and lips swollen.

After an hour or so, he could hear Lukin wishing the men a good night. Car doors opening and closing, then engines turning over and the sound of tires on gravel, growing steadily more distant. Another few minutes, and then Lukin came in. He had taken off his jacket, tie, and shoes, and his sleeves were rolled up. Sitting at the end of the bed, he untied the ropes from Zima’s ankles.

“Stand.”

“Yes, sir,” said Zima, hoping that he was capable of compliance. He pushed himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then gingerly got to his feet. He had to lean heavily against the bedpost at first, but he was able to stand.

“In front of the mirror.”

“Yes, sir.”

Up close, the damage was much more apparent, as was the mess - blood around his mouth from the cut inside his cheek, scratches down his chest from someone’s fingernails, and thick smears of half-dried blood and semen over the insides of his thighs.

Lukin stood behind him and surveyed it, as well, running his fingertips over Zima’s bruises.

“Keep your eyes on the mirror,” Lukin said.

“Yes, sir.”

His hands wrapped around to Zima’s chest, tracing the scratches from top to bottom, then following the curve of his ribcage, over a taut oblique and a sharp hip bone before coming to rest between his legs, cupping him firmly. Zima was not allowed to ask why, but it didn’t stop him from wondering, and wishing that Lukin would just hurry up so he could be off his tired legs.

Lukin’s hand wrapped around his flaccid length, giving slow, measured strokes. Zima’s stomach turned at the rapid downward rush of blood. He didn’t want to be aroused. He didn’t want Lukin’s hand on him. He hadn’t asked for any of this. The unfairness of it didn’t stop the reaction, though, and he was fully erect within a few more pulls. From behind him, he heard a zipper open and a rustle of fabric, then felt Lukin enter him. Compared to what he had been through earlier, it was almost gentle.

He would have preferred pain.

Lukin began to thrust in sync with the motions of his hand, gripping tighter now. Zima didn’t want to watch himself be touched like that. He couldn’t look away, but Lukin had only ordered him to look at the mirror, so he focused on the scratches on his chest. They were red and angry now, but the next time he was awake, they would be long gone. He tried not to notice that his chest had started to heave and flush. When he could no longer ignore it, he let his eyes unfocus until his toes began to curl into the floorboards and he heard the soft splatter of his his own semen hitting the wood, only coming back to full awareness in time to feel a warm pulse of fluid as Lukin came inside him.

The sound of a zipper closing. Zima kept his eyes locked on the mirror, though his eyes were stinging and his vision clouded.

“Follow.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lukin led him out to the cabin’s porch, where he laid a plate of scraps by the door.

“ _Feed_ yourself, Zima.”

Zima collapsed to his hands and knees in front of the plate. He wasn’t hungry anymore, didn’t want to eat this food knowing how he had earned it, but Lukin had used a word that didn’t give him a choice. The command wouldn’t allow him to use his hands, so he bent low over the plate and took a few bites. Cold gristle and fat, vegetable peelings, mixed in with something sweet. He thought it might be bits of a frosted cake. He cleaned the plate against his throat’s closing in protest, because he had been ordered to, licked the grease and sauce and hardened sugar to the last drop.

Finally, Lukin took away the plate.

“Sleep here. You’ll be collected in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

As soon as the door clicked shut, Zima huddled on his side, tight to the wall. The wind was cold, and he hadn’t been given clothes. Beneath him, the wooden boards of the porch were rough and unpolished, splinters digging into his flesh with every slightest shifting of his weight.

His shoulders shook, and his face grew hot. Letting out a shuddering breath, he said to himself what he would never dare say to Lukin.

“This isn’t what I’m _for_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Zima: “Winter” in Russian, romanized.
> 
> *Joseph Stalin, died 3/5/1953. Official cause of death was a stroke leading to internal hemorrhaging; however, some theorize that his death could have been an assassination by fatal overdose of the anticoagulant, warfarin. Stalin's death led to slightly more open relations between Russia and the west during the 50's and 60's.
> 
> *Since Pierce is a totally different character in the movies than in the comics, but I really wanted to use Lukin and Karpov, I made a sort of hybrid timeline between the movies and comics, in which Winter Soldier passes from Zola to Karpov to Lukin to Pierce. I will continue to pick and choose which bits of canon suit me and which details I would like to pull out of my ass.
> 
>  
> 
> [Fullsize image here.](http://filefap.com/files/4013100_aqfne/chap2final.jpg)


	3. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The voice was so high and keening and strained that, until Pierce had removed the blindfold and earplugs, the Asset didn’t realize that it was his own. When he did, he closed his mouth, swallowing the cry with gritted teeth. He glanced up at Pierce, trying to determine if he was in trouble for shouting, but the man’s expression was impossible to read.

“This isn’t what I’m for! This isn’t what I’m for! This isn’t-”

The voice was so high and keening and strained that, until Pierce had removed the blindfold and earplugs, the Asset didn’t realize that it was his own. When he did, he closed his mouth, swallowing the cry with gritted teeth. He glanced up at Pierce, trying to determine if he was in trouble for shouting, but the man’s expression was impossible to read.

“Write,” he said, pointing to a pen and paper on the bedside table.

The Asset nodded. “Yes sir,” he said, his throat dry and hoarse.

 

_Lukin used Zima for a party. Six men. Three Russian. Three American. They ate first. Zima was restrained for compliance._

 

_Verbal commands_

_Entertain - arch back and present to be used_

_Service - give oral sex_

_Reward - open mouth with tongue out and maintain eye contact_

_Feed - eat without using hands_

_Zima allowed to sleep outside until collection._

“Is that enough, sir?” 

Pierce glanced at the paper, his brows knitting slightly.

“That’s good. Better than I expected,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d remember the trigger words. Stay here for a moment.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pierce wasn’t gone for long. When he returned, he had a glass of water in his hand.

“Here,” he said, holding out the glass toward the Asset, who took it uncertainly. He couldn’t decide if he was supposed to drink it or just hold it, so he chose to err on the side of caution, holding it with both hands over his lap. Pierce, looking slightly irritated, lifted the glass to his lips for him, tipping a little water carefully into his mouth. “Go, on. Drink it.”

Pierce took his hand away, letting the Asset finish the glass in gulps. The techs had only given him a little water with his pills, hours ago now, and he was feeling parched.

“Feeling up to another round?” asked Pierce.

The Asset narrowed his eyes quizzically. He was not used to being asked his opinions or preferences. He supposed an answer in the affirmative was always the safest.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he said as he took the empty glass and set it aside. “We can do this once more tonight. That’ll put you at the maximum safe dosage. If I still need more from you, we’ll continue tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pierce guided the Asset back onto the bed and replaced the blindfold and earplugs. After a moment, he felt the prick of the needle again. Then, the rustling of one of the plastic bags before he felt the fabric against his face.

The same Shipr-oil-alcohol scent, but there was something else this time, something he didn’t need to puzzle to identify. The metallic tang of blood was as familiar to him as the vaguely vanilla-like odor of the liquid nitrogen in his cryostasis tank. Lukin’s smell and the smell of blood certainly meant that this wasn’t to be a good memory. He must have flinched at the idea, because as he drifted off, Pierce brushed his fingers over the Asset’s cheek, imparting the faintest smell of wintergreen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short and uneventful chapter. Probably a letdown after months without an update, but it was necessary for the story's structure. I promise the next one will be gorgeously brutal.


	4. Bloodbath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha. The man’s name was Sasha. Zima said it to himself over and over. Sometimes, if he did that, he would remember things he wasn’t supposed to. He wanted to remember Sasha’s name. He was still repeating it to himself when the door clicked open and Lukin came in, followed by two men, one a redhead with a beard, and the other dark-haired and clean-shaven. They both wore armbands on the left sleeve, red and emblazoned with a swastika with a small, blue globe at its center. He was sure they had been Lukin’s guests before. Just past their legs, before they closed the door, he could see Sasha in the next room, leaning back in the armchair with a Makarov on the end-table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty heavy content warning for this chapter - graphic rape and violence. It took me a long time to write because...well, it's hard to write while you're puking in your mouth at your own debauchery. I promise Bucky will get consensual sex soon.

“I’ll be back in an hour. Make sure he’s cleaned up for my guests when I get back.”

Zima could hear Lukin’s voice, and the response of, “Yes, sir,” but he could see neither of them, nor turn his head. He couldn’t move at all without provoking intense pain throughout his body. Lukin had hosted one of his “parties” that afternoon. He didn’t know how many there had been, but he knew they were becoming more frequent. Even so, he was certain they had never been as little as an hour apart.

Somewhere along the way, he had learned to drown out everything happening around him, numb himself and act purely on reflex, but now, he was coming back and growing ever more aware that this time had been bad. Lukin’s friends had become more violent as the years went by. They seemed now to take more delight in hurting him than they did in using him.

Zima whimpered as a hand closed around his right shoulder - tender, possibly dislocated.

“Can you sit up?”

Around a split and swollen lip and a raw throat, Zima managed to murmur, “Yes, sir,” in spite of not knowing if it was the truth. The man helped him slowly to turn over, and then to sit, leaning heavily against the headboard. He wasn’t one of Lukin’s guests, but Zima thought he might have seen him before.

The man handed Zima a wet cloth.

“Clean yourself up,” he said, averting his eyes as soon as Zima took the cloth and popping open a tin of strong-smelling mints.

After a few moments, the cloth was so soaked-through that it was not so much cleaning him as spreading the blood and grime around into an even layer. It didn’t matter. He had been given an order. He had to try.

When the man finally glanced at him again, he shook his head with a sigh.

“Give me that.”

Zima returned the cloth, and watched curiously as the man dipped it into a basin of water, wringing it out thoroughly before wetting it again and passing it back.

They repeated this until Zima was clean, which required three changes of water. After emptying the final basin, the man looked Zima up and down. Not hungrily, like Lukin and his friends. There was something clinical in it, but it wasn’t how the techs looked at him, either. It was an appraising look, the way Zima used to look at his guns, before Lukin had stopped giving him real missions. The way he might have looked at a gun that was almost beyond repair.

Satisfied in his appraisal, the man dressed Zima in a robe, and took a seat near the bed. Several long minutes passed in silence before the man spoke again.

“You know, it’s funny...” he said, and then added, “Your situation.”

“How so, sir?”

“Well, it’s just that...these men, they aren’t really afraid of you anymore. They see how Lukin controls you, and they take it for granted that he always will. It’s like they don’t understand that you could hurt them all very badly just as easily as you could comply.”

Zima’s eyes snapped toward the man, alarmed. “No. No, I would be punished for that.”

The man smiled. “Well, you must be a stronger man than me. You’ve been wiped almost every day since you came out of cryo. Thirty times, in fact. And Lukin’s had four or five of these little get-togethers a week since then. You get beaten by your techs on a whim. What exactly do _you_ consider punishment?”

“I…” Zima faltered. He didn’t know how to answer the question.

“Ah, never mind. I’m sure they’d think of something. Well, let’s get you dressed. Lukin’ll be here with his guests soon.”

The man dressed Zima in the clothes that Lukin had left for him, a crisp white shirt with a navy blazer with a red and gold patch on the breast, matching shorts, knee-high white wool stockings, and a pair of black shoes with rounded toes. The ensemble made him uneasy, especially when the man looped a short silk tie around his neck.

“Sir?” Zima said softly as the man pulled the knot up to his collar. “Will you be here? At...at Lukin’s party?”

He shook his head. “No. I’ll be outside, waiting to take Lukin to the airport after you’re collected, but I don’t have the stomach to...participate in that sort of thing.”

“You shouldn’t feel bad,” said Zima. “I’m not really a person.”

The man’s eyes softened a little. “It’s not that it would make me feel bad. I’m a lot like you. I don’t really feel much at all. It’s all the same to me - varying degrees of tolerable. But I...”

He trailed off.

“Well, that’s a long story.”

“Tell me,” Zima spouted, then cringed at himself and hastily added, “if -- if you want to, sir.”

“Not much time before Lukin gets back,” he said. “I’ll try to keep it short. My mother was widowed when I was very young. Her husband had met Lukin shortly before he died, and they were good friends. They were both some of the first international members of Hydra after it split off from the Nazi party. He sent my mother money, and whenever he was in the States, he’d take the family on outings, bring gifts, that sort of thing. But my mother was never very maternal toward me. She told Lukin, in confidence, that I wasn’t her husband’s son. She fooled around with an airman while her husband was away on business, and she had convinced herself that his death was somehow my fault. He got it out of her that she was planning to leave me at home with gas on, so he convinced her to let him take care of it. He made my records disappear and took me with him back to Russia. I thought he was my savior at first, but...well, you know better than most what he’s like.”

Zima’s chest ached. He didn’t need the man to say any more; he already understood exactly what he meant. “So,” Zima started, carefully. “He hurt you? And that made you like me?”

Chuckling, the man said, “No, it’s not nearly that dramatic. I’ve always been this way, but he did hurt me. And _that_ did make me feel something.”

“What?”

With a vicious smile, he leaned in close and said, “I feel _angry_ . I _hate_ him. And I want him to _suffer_.”

Zima nodded eagerly in spite of himself, but the man pretended not to notice, his face dissolving back into a perfect mask of pleasant neutrality as he stood and made his way toward the door.

“They should be back any minute now. You’re to wait for them in here.”

“Yes, sir."

 

Soon after the man left the room, Zima heard the sound of tires in the driveway. His stomach seemed to take a sudden plunge, but he did his best to stifle the feeling of dread and got to his knees beside the bed. Then, the sound of the car doors, the front door, and Lukin’s voice, loud and raucous.

“You got him cleaned and dressed for me, Sasha? Good boy.”

Sasha. The man’s name was Sasha. Zima said it to himself over and over. Sometimes, if he did that, he would remember things he wasn’t supposed to. He wanted to remember Sasha’s name. He was still repeating it to himself when the door clicked open and Lukin came in, followed by two men, one a redhead with a beard, and the other dark-haired and clean-shaven. They both wore armbands on the left sleeve, red and emblazoned with a swastika with a small, blue globe at its center. He was sure they had been Lukin’s guests before. Just past their legs, before they closed the door, he could see Sasha in the next room, leaning back in the armchair with a Makarov on the end-table.

“Look at him,” the brunet said with a whistle. “Nice outfit. Is that the surprise?”

Laughing, Lukin said, “Just a part of it.” He lifted Zima’s head by the jaw, forcing him to meet his eyes. “ _Ника. Иди сюда._ ”

_No. Don’t do that. Please_ , thought Zima desperately as he felt himself falling, slowly back into darkness.

_It’s okay_ , said a small voice inside his head. _He won’t hurt me as bad as he hurts you._

“This,” Lukin said, “Is Nikolai. He prefers to be called Nika by his friends. Allow me a demonstration of his functions?”

The men looked at each other skeptically, but didn’t object.

“Nika, tell these men how old you are.”

“I’m six,” he said quietly. Last time, he had learned the hard way not to hold up six fingers. He was to speak when he was asked a question.

“And what is your favorite thing to do?”

He didn’t really have one, but he knew the right answer. “I like to play with my friends.”

“How’d you teach him to do that voice?” the redhead asked with a smirk.

“I’m not doing anything!” Nikolai blurted out. “It’s _my_ voice!”

Lukin gave him a withering glance and explained, “There are certain brain functions and thought patterns that are not good for Zima to have. We were unable to eliminate them, so we separated them from the rest of the brain. Putting them to good use was my idea. Nika is the result. His intelligence, his demeanor, his emotions -- all like any other six-year-old boy. The separated sections of the brain have been altered so that he feels his own body as roughly half the size that Zima does. He also experiences pitch as being lower than what Zima hears, which is why his voice is very high. Now, for the best part. Nika, stand up.”

Nikolai obeyed, climbing to his feet and clasping his hands together, eyes on the floor. Lukin held out his palm toward Nikolai.

“Hit my palm as hard as you can.”

Drawing back with his right hand, Nikolai threw himself into the punch, but the strike barely made a noise.

“Harder!”

Again, he drew back and struck as hard as he could, but he was too weak.

“With the left now.”

The other two men cringed as Nikolai delivered the blow with the Weapon, but if anything, his left was weaker.

“If Zima had done that,” said Lukin, “Every bone in my arm would be shattered. But Nika is only as strong as he should be. So even if he misbehaves, he is not able to put up much of a fight. But he is usually very well-behaved. Aren’t you, Nika?”

“Yes, sir. Most of the time.”

“Almost as good as the real thing,” said the brunet. “Is he shaved?”

“Of course,” said Lukin. “I like him to be as realistic as possible. He also doesn’t ejaculate.”

The redhead cocked an eyebrow. “Really? How?”

“Another modification to his areas of the brain which control muscle function. He reflexively relaxes instead of contracting the muscle of the bladder opening when he orgasms, resulting in a retrograde ejaculation.”

“Alright,” said the brunet impatiently. “Enough of the science lessons. Let’s see him in action.”

Lukin chuckled. “Alright. Nika, let’s play with your new friends.”

“Okay,” said Nikolai, forcing a smile and scrambling to his feet and standing in front of the two men, shifting his weight back and forth. He didn’t know which one he was supposed to play with first. “Um...Ехала белка на тележке…” he started, pointing alternately at the two men with the rhythm of the counting-out game. They didn’t look like they understood the words, but they seemed to know what he was doing, and to be amused by it. “Раздавала всем орешки...кому два...кому три...выходи из круга…ты.”

On the last word, he pointed at the redhead.

“Okay,” he said, taking the brunet by the hand and leading him to the bed. “Sit down, please.”

The man smirked, eyes flickering toward Lukin, who gave him an encouraging nod. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He rubbed his hand nervously over his stubble. “Okay, Nika, what’re we playing?”

“What’s your name, mister?” Nikolai asked softly, chewing his lip in a perfect imitation of a shy child.

The brunet looked again toward Lukin, who waved his hand dismissively. “You secrets are quite safe with him. He will be wiped directly. He remembers nothing.”

“George Rockwell. Friends call me Georgie.”

“Okay, Mr. Rockwell. I like your American accent!” Nikolai giggled, lifting Rockwell’s hand from where it had been fidgeting nervously in his pocket and studying it intently. “You don’t have a wife?”

“No.”

“That’s good. Girls are mean,” Nikolai warned him sincerely. Rockwell chuckled and nodded in agreement. “Boys are more fun,” he informed him as he clambered onto the bed beside him. He stopped short and turned, looking mournfully at his shoes. “No shoes allowed in the bed. Mr. Rockwell, will you untie them for me?”

“Sure,” said Rockwell, leaning forward. He ran his hands over Nikolai’s stockinged calves on his way, gripping first the left, then the right ankle as he picked open the lacings and pulled off the well-shined shoes.

“Yours, too.”

Rockwell made quicker work of his own shoes while Nikolai sprawled out behind him.

“Alright. What now, Nika?”

“Hmm…” Nikolai said, tugging at the hem of his blazer. “My school-clothes are itchy.”

“Oh, yeah?” Rockwell shifted, resting his weight in his arms on either side of Nikolai’s torso. He ran a hand over the wool blazer. Nikolai forced back a grimace as he squeezed at the emblem on his chest.

“Yes,” he said. “They’re not very good to play in.”

Rockwell’s hands gripped tight on either side of his chest, thumbs digging in at his nipples, then sweeping down to open the buttons of his blazer and fold it out to the sides.

“Pretty boy,” he murmured, pulling on Nikolai’s tie so that it tightened uncomfortably around his throat before hooking a finger around the knot and pulling it free. Discarding the tie over the side of the bed, he started on the buttons, undoing them roughly and yanking the tails of Nikolai’s shirt from his waistband, exposing his chest. Rockwell’s hands were clammy as he palmed Nikolai’s stomach. “Sit up. Let’s get these off of you.”

Nikolai obeyed, sitting and letting Rockwell slide the blazer and shirt from his shoulders, then brought his hands to Rockwell’s shirt buttons. “Yours, too,” he said, clumsily opening the man’s shirt and ghosting the fingers of his right hand through the thick patch of hair across his chest.

Rockwell chuckled. “You like the way that feels?”

“Mh-hm,” said Nikolai. It was a lie. Rockwell was thin, but unfit, and his skin felt like gritty dough. It was worse when Rockwell pressed their torsos together and buried his face in Nikolai’ neck, his tongue lapping against the tendons in his throat, too cool and too wet, but Nikolai wasn’t supposed to flinch or cringe when Lukin’s friends touched him.

Rockwell’s hands worked down his back into the waist of his trousers, groping fingers squeezing between his buttocks.

“Smooth,” he whispered as he slid his fingers up and down, his breath damp against Nikolai’s ear.

“Mr. Rockwell,” Nikolai gasped, gripping at the collar of the men’s open shirt. “Can Mr. Lukin and our other friend play with us, too? I don’t want them to feel left out.”

He looked up through his eyelashes at Rockwell as he pulled back. Maybe if they all had their turns at the same time, it would be over faster.

Rockwell shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You boys okay with that?”

“Sounds good to me,” the redhead said, putting out his cigarette and removing his shoes before approaching the bed.

“What’s your name, sir?” Nikolai asked, crawling over to meet him.

“Norm Harrison.”

As Nikolai started to work on Harrison’s shirt, Rockwell wrapped his arms around him from behind, undoing the fly of Nikolai’s trousers and pressing his crotch into his backside.

“You may need to give my Nika a little direction,” Lukin advised as he settled in at the foot of the bed, hanging his jacket and tie on the post. “He has a little experience, but not too much. He’s very willing to try new things, though.”

“Is that right?” said Harrison. “Have you ever sucked a dick, Nika?”

Blushing, Nikolai nodded. Behind him, Rockwell’s hands had moved to the sides of his waistband and were pulling it slowly down his hips. Harrison unbuckled his belt hastily and unzipped, reaching into his briefs to expose his half-hard length. Nikolai leaned forward onto his left arm. Carefully, he took hold of the man with his right hand and swirled his tongue around the head, teasing it into full hardness. As he did, a warm hand, Lukin’s, ran along his spine to settle on the back of his neck, pushing his mouth down onto Harrison, and Rockwell’s mouth sucked a bruising trail along the top of his thigh. He yelped quietly around Harrison when he felt Rockwell’s tongue take a broad swipe up from his thigh in between his buttocks.

“Whatever you’re doing back there, Georgie,” said Harrison huskily, “keep it up.”

Rockwell gave a throaty laugh and flicked his tongue against Nikolai, then dipped it into him. Lukin, gripping Nikolai’s neck harder now, forced Harrison’s cock deeper, so that Nikolai’ lips were pressed to his thumb and forefinger, placed just high enough to keep him from gagging.

“If you think that’s good,” Rockwell said, pulling back, “you’re going to love this.”

Nikolai heard the clinking of a belt buckle, and then felt Rockwell’s cock butting up against him, between his spread cheeks. He was jerking it slowly so that the head slipped inside and then back out with every stroke. Nikolai groaned in pain, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Apparently encouraged, Rockwell leaned heavily forward, burying himself inside Nikolai in one plunge. Nikolai gave a ragged sob at the burning stretch, and then muffled screams with the relentless thrusts that followed.

_Not much longer, little one,_ said a voice in his head. Zima. _It’s only three of them. They can’t last too long. It’ll be over before you know it._

_It hurts,_ he thought back.

_I know. Be brave._

Taking a deep breath, Nikolai braced himself against Rockwell’s thrusting, focused on his own body, his own control of it, and clenched hard around Rockwell’s cock in slow, measured pulses.

“Oh, fuck!” Rockwell moaned. As he sped his pace, Nikolai matched his squeezes with it until he felt the man spill hotly inside him and then pull away..

_One down_ , said Zima.

Harrison followed soon after, pulling back suddenly to come in several long spurts over Nikolai’s lips, cheeks, and chin. He ruffled Nikolai’s hair with a laugh and moved to recline against the headboard, tucking himself away.

_One more_.

_I’m tired…_

_Just one more, then you can go to sleep._

“Your turn, Mr. Lukin,” said Nikolai breathlessly.

Lukin reached over to the bedpost and pulled a handkerchief from his jacket.

“George,” he said, roughly wiping Nikolai’s mouth. “Get the vaseline from the nightstand.”

Standing and stretching lazily, Lukin led Nikolai by the hand to the middle of the floor while Rockwell rifled through the nightstand-drawer. A sticky rush of fluid trailed down Nikolai’s thighs when he stood.

“On your knees,” said Lukin, removing his shirt and tossing it over the footboard.

Obeying the command, Nikolai reached up to undo Lukin’s belt and nuzzled at the outline of his erection. Rockwell approached, vaseline in hand.

“Slick up your hand,” said Lukin. “See if he can take it to the wrist.”

Nikolai looked up suddenly, eyes wide. “But he already had his turn!”

Lukin grabbed his chin with a stern glare. “And I’m having mine. What’s the matter? You don’t want to play with me?”

“N-No!” Nikolai said, hurriedly unzipping Lukin’s fly. “I do! I’m sorry.”

“Good boy. We're not even halfway done with you.”

Lukin took his cock in his hand and stroked it against Nikolai’s lips, which he opened in response, sticking out his tongue underneath it. Rockwell, meanwhile, had already worked in two fingers and was scissoring them apart. A third followed, then a fourth, too fast, and Nikolai arched back in pain with a sharp cry.

“No! That hurts!” he shouted, then had an idea. Sasha was still in the other room, and he had a gun. Sasha would make them stop. “Sasha! Sasha! Help! He’s hurting me!”

His outburst earned him a bruising blow across the cheek from Lukin’s knuckles that knocked him onto his side. Lukin wasted no time in hauling him up by the hair.

“You want to ruin our good time, little whore?” he bellowed. “Fine. Keep going, George. No need to be gentle.”

Lukin shoved his cock past Nikolai’s lips, all the way into his throat before he had time to take a breath, and Rockwell started up where he had left off, pressing in past the widest point of his hand. Nikolai could feel himself tearing. He couldn’t breathe.

“Eyes on me,” Lukin snapped. “Does it hurt?”

Nikolai gave a muffled shout as Rockwell added his thumb, twisting inside. Lukin pulled him by the hair in short, sharp thrusts, never far enough back to allow him a breath, gagging and choking him. Rockwell was pumping his hand brutally in and out, filling Nikolai’s entire body with searing pain. He screwed his eyes shut.

“Keep your eyes on me!” shouted Lukin, wrapping a hand around Nikolai’s throat. What precious little air he could get before was gone now. He forced himself to open his eyes and stare, pleadingly, into Lukin’s snarling, red face.

_I can’t breathe. He’s going to kill me. Somebody, please, help..._

From the door, Nikolai heard a soft _click_ , too low for the men to hear, but his ears were sharp. It was the sound of the door’s lock sliding into place. Sasha. Sasha had locked the door, and that was all the encouragement that Zima needed to rush forward, back into control. Suddenly, he could feel everything - Lukin’s hands in his hair and at his throat, the shattering pain in his abdomen, the panicked breathlessness and raw fear that Nikolai had felt, and something else, something that had been foreign to him for a very long time. Rage at these men and how they treated him, how they treated Nikolai. He wanted it to end, now, and he didn’t care what punishment would follow.

He bit down, and Lukin gave an almost-inhuman shriek, clawing desperately at Zima’s face. The pain only intensified his anger. He threw his right elbow back into Rockwell’s ribs, sending him sliding backwards, and closed the Weapon around Lukin’s wrist, grinning savagely at the wet _snap_ as he pulled back, blood streaming from his mouth. He leapt up, tackling Lukin to the floor, gripping his hair with the Weapon and slamming his head into the hardwood, over and over, only pausing to swat the other two men away as they tried to stop him, until Lukin had long since ceased to struggle.

Zima whipped around to the others. Rockwell was already halfway out the window. He wouldn’t get very far in the cold. Harrison had pissed himself, and was shaking the door by the handle, struggling futilely against the lock and screaming for Sasha to help him, eyes darting desperately between Zima and the door. Zima walked to him slowly, stopping just an arm’s length behind him.

“P-Please,” Harrison stammered. “Please don’t! I-I-I’ll do anything you want. I-”

He froze as Zima’s hands closed on either side of his head. He only hand time to give one last pleading whimper before Zima twisted, sharply, snapping his neck with sharp _crack_. He tossed the body aside and went back to Lukin, kneeling beside him. He was still breathing, albeit raggedly, and his eyelids fluttered against swollen, fractured sockets. Zima grabbed his chin and turned his head toward him, eliciting a weak groan.

“Eyes on me,” Zima ordered. “Does it hurt?”

Lukin wasn’t capable of giving an answer, but Zima knew it must.

He leaned in close to the man’s ear. “Are you suffering?” he hissed. “You’re going to die. Here. Like this. Do you know that? Are you afraid?”

Behind him, the door creaked open.

“What a mess,” said Sasha, stepping over Harrison’s body to kneel on Lukin’s other side.

“I’m prepared for any punishment, sir,” said Zima, never taking his eyes off of Lukin’s, but Sasha’s eyes were fixed there, too. He didn’t seem to hear.

They stayed there until Lukin’s eyes clouded over and his lungs let out one last rattling breath, and then Sasha stood, holding his hand out to Zima.

“I’ve called in some operatives. Before they get here, I need for you to hurt me. Just enough to make it look convincing. Then I’m going to shoot you in the shoulder and restrain you. Understood?”

Zima glanced toward the window. “Rockwell got away.”

“You’ll have him. I’ll make sure of it.”

Nodding, Zima reluctantly met Sasha’s eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you, sir.”

“And I don’t want to shoot you,” he replied patiently. “But it has to be done. Break my arm. Cleanly, if you would.”

Sasha rolled up his left sleeve and held it out to Zima, who took it between both hands. He hesitated, then took a breath and pushed, snapping the bone between the Weapon and his flesh hand as Sasha gave a strangled cry through gritted teeth.

“Alright,” he panted. “Stand back.”

Doing as he was told, Zima took a few paces backwards, watching Sasha pull the Makarov from his belt and take aim. He heard the shot and felt the impact in his right shoulder, then a spreading burn as he staggered to his knees. Sasha hurried over, plucking a handful of rags from the dresser on his way.

“Good shot,” Zima rasped as Sasha pressed a rag to the exit wound and handed Zima one for the front.

“Thanks,” said Sasha. “This is going to be tough. We’ve only got one good arm each. Can you hold both for a second?”

Nodding, Zima pressed his cheek to the rag over the front of his shoulder, and wrapped the Weapon around to hold the one on the back. Sasha, meanwhile, pulled out a longer rag from the pile and wrapped it under Zima’s arm and over his shoulder, tying it tightly on top with his teeth.

Then, Sasha sat on the bed to fashion a sling for himself in the same manner. His arm was already grotesquely swollen and bruised. When he had finished, he pulled a pair of mag cuffs from his pocket. Zima turned his back to him and held out his arms against the screaming protest of his injured shoulder, but Sasha fastened the cuffs quickly, and Zima sank to his knees. Sasha allowed Zima’s head to rest against his thigh.

The room smelled like Lukin - oil and stale liquor and thick cologne - but also like blood and faint wintergreen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lukin's Russian text just says, "Nika, come here."
> 
> "Nika" is a really babyish diminutive of "Nikolai".
> 
> "Sasha" is a diminutive for Alexander, but I think that was pretty obvious.
> 
> George Lincoln Rockwell founded the American Nazi party. And I made him eat ass. And then run, half naked, out a window. So there.
> 
> Translation for the counting-out game:  
> The squirrel in the cart  
> Gives out hazelnuts.  
> Who wants two of them?  
> Who wants three of them?  
> Whoever goes out of the circle  
> Is you!


	5. The American

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You remember Karpov?” Pierce asked, reaching into the pocket of his jacket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit two, handed one to the Asset, and retrieved an ashtray from the nightstand.
> 
> “Yes, sir. He came before Lukin. When he got sick, I was in cryo for a long time, but before that, I was in the field a lot. He gave me a lot of missions. Before that, it was Zola. Zola experimented on me. He did a lot of surgeries, back before they found an anesthetic that would work on me. There was a metal rod he would put in the corner of my eye, and a little hammer he’d use to drive it in. It made me docile for a while, but he had to do it a lot. I was violent. I killed techs. All the time. Any time I got the chance. But I was good by the time Zola was done with me. He only gave me a few missions. Before that...I don’t know. It’s fuzzy. I had another handler. I don’t remember much about him. He gave me almost as many missions as Karpov. But he would go in the field with me. I think I still had my arm.”

The Asset woke quietly this time, but he could feel tears cooling on his cheeks as Pierce removed his blindfold and earplugs.

“You...I know you. You’re Sasha.”

Pierce’s lips tightened. “Don’t ever call me that,” he said, passing the Asset his pen and paper. “Here. Write.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

_Lukin orders Sasha to_

He stopped, then crossed it out and started over.

_Lukin orders Pierce to bathe Z_

“If you don’t want to be called ‘Sasha’, is it alright if I’m not called ‘Zima’, sir?”

Pierce seemed to consider it. “What would you like to be called?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Well, my boys have been calling you ‘The Asset’. They’re a little iffy about calling something that belongs to us by a Russian name.”

“Yes, sir.”

_Lukin orders Pierce to bathe the Asset after a party. Comes back with two men, Americans -- George Rockwell and Norm Harrison. American Nazi Party. Lukin triggers Nikolai. (T.P.: Ника. Иди сюда) The men and Lukin use Nikolai. The Asset malfunctions and kills Lukin and Harrison. Rockwell escapes. Pierce attempts to subdue the Asset. The Asset breaks his arm, but is subdued with a gunshot to the right shoulder. Restrained for pick-up._

The Asset handed the paper to Pierce, who took it and looked it over with knitted brows.

“Interesting,” he said. “You left some things out.”

Shaking his head, the Asset said, “I didn’t, sir. That’s all that happened.”

He had already made up his mind that he wouldn’t talk about what had really happened. As far as anyone would know, Pierce’s hands were clean. He owed him that at the very least.

Pierce gave an understanding nod, then offered the Asset a hand up from the bed.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of this room. I’ve got one of the guest rooms all set up.”

The Asset followed closely behind. The hall door was still open, and through it, he could see the arm-chair that Pierce had sat in the night Lukin died. He remembered that he had seen him there before, at parties, still and silent as a statue, always holding his Makarov, sometimes smoking a cigarette. As Pierce closed the guest room door, the Asset glanced toward him.

“You smoke.”

“How did you know?” asked Pierce as he knelt in front of the fireplace.

“I remembered,” the Asset said, cringing. He might be punished for that.

Pierce nodded. “That’s good. I was hoping this little exercise might have that effect. Anything else?”

“There was a man with the team who picked me up after I killed Lukin. He wanted to kill me. He said I was too dangerous. You told him I could be fixed.”

“Malick,” said Pierce. “He’s been a problem. He thinks he should be the one to take Lukin’s place.”

“I could kill him,” the Asset offered.

“No. That would look bad. And he’s got quite a few men in his corner.”

“I remember more.”

Pierce, sitting down on the edge of the bed, removed his jacket. “Go on.”

“Sir?” The Asset knew he was pushing his luck, but he only hesitated a second before asking, “May I have one of your cigarettes? Please?”

Pierce gave a short little laugh, surprised. “Will you still tell me what you remember even if I say no?”

Nodding, the Asset said, “Yes, sir. I just like them. Karpov used to let me have them.”

“You remember Karpov?” Pierce asked, reaching into the pocket of his jacket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit two, handed one to the Asset, and retrieved an ashtray from the nightstand.

“Yes, sir. He came before Lukin. When he got sick, I was in cryo for a long time, but before that, I was in the field a lot. He gave me a lot of missions. Before that, it was Zola. Zola experimented on me. He did a lot of surgeries, back before they found an anesthetic that would work on me. There was a metal rod he would put in the corner of my eye, and a little hammer he’d use to drive it in. It made me docile for a while, but he had to do it a lot. I was violent. I killed techs. All the time. Any time I got the chance. But I was good by the time Zola was done with me. He only gave me a few missions. Before that...I don’t know. It’s fuzzy. I had another handler. I don’t remember much about him. He gave me almost as many missions as Karpov. But he would go in the field with me. I think I still had my arm.”

Pierce raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

“Yes, sir,” said the Asset. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember anything else before that.”

“That’s alright. Who is Nikolai?”

The Asset gritted his teeth, looking toward the floor. “Nikolai is...he’s a program. A set of protocols. I have several of them, but Nikolai was the only one that Lukin ever used. When Zola was working on me, he made one. By accident, I think. He called him Jakob. Jakob only speaks German. He’s very nervous. Karpov made one he called Anastasii. He’s an idiot. And there’s another. I think the handler before Zola made him. He’s American. I don’t know his name. He hasn’t been triggered in a long time. I think that’s all. So four total.”

Pierce took a long drag off of his cigarette, then used it to light another before extinguishing it in the ashtray. The Asset had barely touched his, he’d been speaking so quickly. It was only burnt halfway down. He took a quick puff and flicked it against the ashtray.

“So,” said Pierce. “Jakob the nervous German, Anastasii the Russian idiot, and the American. And Nikolai. What about him? Who made him?”

“I don’t know, sir. I always thought it must have been Lukin, but that’s not right. Lukin always said he made him, but he just added things to him. Behaviors. Nikolai was here before. I think Zola might have made him.”

Squinting, the Asset thought hard, trying to remember when Nikolai first appeared. A bunker in the Alps. Zola was there. He looked confused.

“Yes. Zola made him, but _he_ was the accident, not Jakob. Zola made Jakob after Nikolai. Because he realized that he could make others once Nikolai showed up. Lukin found out about him, and that was the first time someone triggered him intentionally. Lukin gave him his name.”

“And what is Nikolai like?”

“He’s…” The Asset faltered. He trusted Pierce, but what if he decided to use Nikolai like Lukin had? What if he was no different? “A child. Six years old. He’s always six. He doesn’t grow up. He’s weak, and he’s afraid of everyone. Please don’t hurt him.”

“I won’t,” said Pierce. He sounded like he meant it. “I’d like to remove all of those programs if possible.”

“You can’t. Zola tried. He gave me drugs to suppress them, but they made me more violent.”

“Hm. Do you remember things that happen while the others are triggered?”

The Asset extinguished his cigarette. “It depends,” he said. “When Lukin would leave Nikolai triggered for months at a time, I would...sort of fade. And I wouldn’t remember much of what happened to him. But we can all talk to each other. Jakob and Anastasii, not so much, but they haven’t been triggered in a long time. Nikolai mostly. And sometimes the American. I don’t know why he can still talk. I think it’s because he was around for so long. The other two weren’t used for more than two years.”

Pierce nodded. “Well, it’s late,” he said, standing and stretching before going to the closet. “Let’s get some sleep. We’ll go to the labs tomorrow. Then you’ll go back into cryo to be shipped to New York. We have a headquarters there.”

“Yes, sir,” said the Asset, standing and walking toward the door.

“What are you doing?”

The Asset paused, unsure what he had done wrong. “You said to sleep, sir. I was going outside.”

“It’s 10 below outside,” said Pierce.

“I don’t mind the cold.”

“Can’t be comfortable, though,” he said. “Sleep in here.”

“Thank you sir.” The Asset was overwhelmed. Pierce had been kinder to him in one evening than anyone had been in a very long time.

Pierce tossed the Asset some clothes from the closet, and pulled out some for himself. The Asset watched Pierce as he changed, but averted his eyes quickly with a deep flush when he turned around, stripping off his own clothes before pulling on the pajamas and sitting at the end of the bed. Pierce climbed in on the other side and turned off the lamp.

“Lay down,” he said, sounding a little irritated, when the Asset didn’t move as soon as the light was out.

“At the foot of the bed, or…?”

A sigh.

New handlers were always so difficult. He never knew what they wanted right away, and Pierce was the first that he really _wanted_ to please. It made him anxious to fail, over and over, as he had been doing. “Up here, please. I really don’t think I’d be comfortable with you draped across my feet.”

Quickly, the Asset slipped underneath the blanket next to Pierce. The bed wasn’t quite large enough for both of them to sleep in it without touching a little.

“Are you…” he started, not sure if Pierce would be more annoyed if he asked the question or if he didn’t. He decided it would be best to ask. “Are you going to use me before you go to sleep, sir?”

“No. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

_It’s him._ The American.

_It’s not,_ the Asset thought in reply.

_It has to be. I know it._

_You’re wrong. They look similar, but your handler was taller._

_No, he wasn’t. Was he? I thought he was short._

_You don’t even remember your name. Shut up and let me sleep._

_But it_ is _him._

 

_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I make illustrations for my works now. I'll try to do one for each chapter of this story and just add them as I finish them. The first three are up, so check 'em out if you haven't already. Also, I have a tumblr now. My url is mostlyhydratrash.tumblr.com


	6. Nadezhda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Asset struggled to sit, only to realize he was restrained. “Where’s Pierce?”
> 
> Malick frowned. “You remember him?”
> 
> “He’s my handler.”
> 
> “Was,” Malick corrected, sharply. “I’m your handler now. Pierce has been relieved of his duties.”
> 
> “Why?” the Asset asked. Immediately, he knew he shouldn’t have. If Malick was his handler, then it wasn’t his place to question him. But something about this was wrong. He hadn’t been wiped upon coming out of cryo, and his skin stung all over. They’d brought him out too quickly, clumsily. These men had no idea what they were doing.

Murmuring, distant.

No. Nearby. Just waking up.

Trying to remember.

Nothing. Only protocol and programming.

Was it always this way?

The tank. He must have just come out of the tank. There were heat lamps all around him, and he was warm. The voices faded in slowly as the Asset opened his eyes. New techs, none he recognized.

“Sir?” The tech nearest to him. English, late thirties. “He’s awake.”

A man stepped forward. Not one of his handlers. He was young, early twenties at best, dark hair and a soft face.

“Soldier,” the man nodded, pulling up a chair. “I’m Gideon Malick.”

“Malick,” the Asset repeated. It sounded familiar. Malick… “I know that name.”

“You met my father,” Malick supplied. “Before you were last put in stasis. He thought we should put a bullet in your head. I disagreed. I think that you can still be useful to us.”

_This isn’t right. Why is Malick here? My handler...where is my handler?_

The Asset struggled to sit, only to realize he was restrained. “Where’s Pierce?”

Malick frowned. “You remember him?”

“He’s my handler.”

“ _Was,_ ” Malick corrected, sharply. “I’m your handler now. Pierce has been relieved of his duties.”

“Why?” the Asset asked. Immediately, he knew he shouldn’t have. If Malick was his handler, then it wasn’t his place to question him. But something about this was wrong. He hadn’t been wiped upon coming out of cryo, and his skin stung all over. They’d brought him out too quickly, clumsily. These men had no idea what they were doing.

“That’s none of your concern,” said Malick, leaning back in his chair and reaching for a folder on the table. “Now, to business; I have this file, containing information that I need. The problem is, it’s in Russian, and none of my men speak Russian. I have a prisoner who does, but since the file concerns her, I don’t exactly trust her to give me an accurate translation. I need you to look it over and tell me what it says. Understood?”

“Is he alive?”

The look on Malick’s face and his tightening grip on the file made it clear that the Asset was pushing his luck. “I’m going to humor you as a show of goodwill. But you are not in a position to bargain,” he said measuredly. “Yes. Pierce is alive, because I let him live when I took control of the Moscow facility. His...ambitions...didn’t line up with Hydra’s ideals, and he had to be removed from his position.”

Swallowing, the Asset weighed his options, considered possibilities. Malick’s men were certainly Hydra, but they were a different faction; each of his previous handlers had worked with their predecessor, or at least been in contact with the Asset through them. He’d never met Malick, or anyone else present, and by Malick’s own admission, there had been a coup against Pierce. It was difficult to determine whether he should treat this as a simple change in leadership - in which case he should obey Malick’s orders and follow protocol as usual - or as insurrection - in which case he was obligated to return to his rightful master by any means. However, as far as he knew, no one was in danger but _him,_ and since he was also obligated to protect his master’s property, that complicated things. Malick’s men, even the techs, were armed and on edge. If he were to attempt an escape, how many would fight? How many would run? How extensive was security throughout the base? On the perimeter? Would there be a vehicle he could commandeer?

There were too many uncertainties, and the likelihood of the Asset being killed or gravely injured was too great. Until he was more certain of his situation, he would give Malick a bare minimum of compliance.

“The file...sir?”

Malick gestured to the nearest two men, and one trained a pistol on the Asset while the other removed his restraints, replacing them with a pair of metal handcuffs. Good. Not mag-cuffs. The Asset could break them if he needed to.

When the guard lowered his weapon and Malick passed him the file, the Asset glanced through it. The folder was marked _Проект ЛЕТО,_ and that name alone was enough to give him pause about translating it for Malick. He needed to tread cautiously.

“Two separate files under the same project. This one,” he said, indicating the second clipped set of papers with _ЛЕТО II_ printed neatly in the top right-hand corner, “is more recent. They’re case-files. One subject apiece. Adolescents, the first one male. No sex indicated on the second.”

“The second is the girl, my prisoner. Look for formulas and procedures,” said Malick impatiently. So he knew what the file was, or at least suspected.

The Asset skimmed the first file. “Initial intramuscular injection of 4,000mg. Maintenance injections 250mg, monthly. It doesn’t say _what,_ just refers to a ‘suspension’. No formula.”

“And the second case?”

Flipping to the second bundle of papers, the Asset said, “Initial intramuscular injection - 3,000mg suspension plus 500mg mixed testosterone esters. Then 200mg and 500mg, respectively, per month.”

Malick’s lips thinned as he gritted his teeth. “No other procedures? No command lists?”

“No sir,” said the Asset, passing the file back. “These are medical files. Procedural files are stored at Kronas headquarters.”

Slamming his fist down on the table, Malick called to one of the other men. “Clark, make the call. Get Pierce out here. Tell him we’re willing to negotiate.” Then, to the two who had switched the Asset’s restraints, “Put the soldier in a cell. We can’t do anything with him until we have those command lists and procedures.”

They hauled the Asset up by the arms and guided him into a row of barred cells just off the main area, not to the larger complex on the level below. Either they just didn’t trust him to be out of sight, which meant that they were understaffed and couldn’t spare the manpower to patrol the lower level, or they had locked down the rest of the facility to conserve power, which meant they were low on resources and vulnerable. Either way, it was a good sign for the Asset’s escape. He was never kept in these cells. They weren’t nearly sturdy enough to hold him.

As soon as they had locked him in and turned their backs, he clenched his fists and pulled at the cuffs.

_“Don’t.”_

The voice, speaking Russian, had come from the adjacent cell. A girl, young - maybe only fifteen or sixteen, sitting against the intersection of bars and the concrete block wall, long, muscular legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle in front of her and hands cuffed behind her back. Her clothes were strange; she wore black trousers under the brown wool smock-dress of a school uniform, but without the usual black or white apron, and the collar was torn off. Her dirty blonde hair was raggedly cropped.

 _“The cuffs,”_ she added. _“Don’t break them. Not yet. You heard him; Pierce is coming.”_

 _“You’re the girl from that file,”_ the Asset said, voice low. _“What’s happening? When did Malick take this base?”_

 _“Three days ago,”_ said the girl. _“He took Moscow first, the week before. I was there with Pierce. He got a warning that Malick planned to attack, so he cleared the facility and took me to the panic room. He left the file out because he knew Malick would take me here if he knew I was enhanced.”_

_“Why did he want Malick to take you?”_

_“I grew up here.”_

Blinking, the Asset raised an eyebrow. There were never many children at the base. _“Grew up here?”_

 _“Mh,”_ said the girl. _“My name is Nadezhda Karpova. I don’t know if you remember them, but my grandfather, Vasily Karpov, and his adopted son, Aleksander Lukin, were your handlers.”_

 _“I remember them,”_ the Asset replied with a nod. _“Lukin more than Karpov...What’s your plan?”_

 _“This facility uses mag-cuffs because of you,”_ said Nadezhda. _“The other factions don’t. My grandfather was afraid of something like this happening with the other factions, so he hid lockpicks in all the cells, and ran the wiring for the security system - alarms, access points, cameras, perimeter lights - behind this wall. Pierce will come to negotiate with Malick, and when he gives me a signal, I’ll cut the line. Then Pierce’s men will take out the perimeter and storm the base, and Malick and whoever else has the misfortune will be trapped in here with us.”_

  

There was a large clock mounted on the wall opposite the cells, and the Asset watched the small hand sweep past the _12_ twice in silence before a man he hadn’t yet seen, an officer of some sort, came into the room. He halted in front of the desk where Malick had sat since early that morning, pouring over the few files that Pierce’s men had left behind.

“Sir?” the officer said. “Pierce’s chopper just landed. He’s being searched now.”

“Good. Have him brought in as soon as he’s cleared.”

After twenty minutes, the sound of approaching footsteps crescendoed down the hall, and Pierce, hands clasped behind his head, rounded the corner, followed closely by two armed guards with their weapons trained on his back.

“Hello, Gideon,” said Pierce jovially.

Malick nodded. “Alex.”

“I’d shake your hand, but I think these guys might shoot me for it.”

“Just making sure you didn’t take any detours,” said Malick, gesturing the guards away. “Haven’t had time to find all the weapons you had stashed around the place.”

Pierce took a seat and crossed his legs, leaning back with a smirk. “Me? I haven’t been to this base in years, myself.”

Beside the Asset, Nadezhda shifted, keeping her eyes locked on the men as she groped along the wall behind her, slotting her finger into a gap underneath one of the stones and pulling it loose. It seemed to be hollowed out on the bottom, and a small object fell into her hand. The Asset turned his eyes forward. If anyone happened to look over, he didn’t want to direct their attention to her.

“That’s right,” Malick said. “You always spent more time in _Scarsdale_ , didn’t you?”

Something about that statement must have struck a nerve with Pierce, because his jaw clenched, a tendon standing out briefly across the plane of his cheek, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. He chuckled and removed his glasses, placing them in his breast pocket. “I’m assuming you didn’t have me come out here just to insult me,” he said. “So, let’s get to it.”

There was a soft _clink,_ and when the Asset glanced over, Nadezhda was free of her cuffs and rubbing at the indentations they’d left on her wrists.

 _“Distract the guards if they look this way,”_ she murmured, returning her efforts to the loose stone.

“I want the formula mentioned in this file, and all of the files on the Soldier. Command lists, protocol, how he was made. Everything. In return, I’ll give you the girl.”

“So, you’re asking me for the means to create and control supersoldiers,” said Pierce, “and you think one _partially-_ enhanced teenager is a fair price? No. You _can’t_ be that stupid, Gideon.”

The lights flickered briefly as whatever Nadezhda was doing inside the wall made a sharp _click._ She froze, turning back toward the men, but none of them seemed to notice.

 _“It’s locked down,”_ she whispered. _“Malick, five armed guards, two technicians. When I say go, Pierce and I will take the guards. You take the techs. Less likely to work on you if they try a sedative. Malick is to be kept alive.”_

_“Understood.”_

Malick’s lip curled into a sneer. “Without those files, she and the Soldier are both useless to me, so if I don’t have them by the end of the week, they die.”

“Actually,” Pierce said, uncrossing his legs to lean forward in the chair. “I have a bargain of my own to propose: I keep the files, I keep the Asset, Nadya goes home, and you go back to leading your little prayer circle. Like none of this ever happened. You do that, and keep your eyes to the ground, and I won’t bring five factions down on your head.”

“As if you could drum up the support,” Malick spat. “If I hadn’t ousted you, someone else would have. None of them wanted to follow Lukin’s lapdog.”

Pierce laughed, shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. “You know, I thought that, too, at first. I mean, it’s a given that the Russians don’t like you, and neither does Azhari, but I thought, ‘Zola, Rheinhardt, Strucker, Fontaine, they may tolerate him if it suits their needs, and Brown and Vermis definitely will. The Japanese’ll stay out of it unless push comes to shove. That doesn’t leave me with many allies,’ but the funny thing is...when I went to them to find out who was backing you, _none_ of them were.”

Standing, Malick said, “Maybe not, but I don’t see them here backing you, either, so unless you have a compelling reason why I shouldn’t make an example of you--”

“Because they _are_ here, and they are backing me. Well, their men anyway. Zola, Fontaine, Rheinhardt, Azhari, Strucker...they all got a little nervous when they found out that you were taking on other leaders unilaterally. So, they each sent a unit behind me to help knock you down a couple of pegs.”

Malick shook his head. “You’re bluffing.”

As if on cue, gunfire and distant shouts rang out from above to the north-west, and down in the ridge to the south-east. Pierce gave a shrugging smirk.

“No. I’m not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got longer than I intended. Next time: a fight, more Nikolai, and the last Vasily Karpov.
> 
> [EDIT] I'm currently in the process of editing and reformatting this work and others in the series into related-but-independent oneshots. A link to that series will be posted here when it's up. This series will not be continued in its present form.


End file.
